


Here They Lie

by casti3l



Category: Supernatural
Genre: How Destiel should become canon, M/M, idk what else, just winchester angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:37:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casti3l/pseuds/casti3l
Summary: A quick little fic about how I think Destiel should become  canon. Written for my account on iFunny, but decided I may as well post it here, too.





	1. Here They Lie

**Here They Lie**  
(Arlington National Cemetery)

Flags stir gently in the wind.  
A light breeze carries hushed voices on its back.  
It brushes gently through the leaves of the trees,  
Great oaks that stand tall above my head,  
blocking out the bluest of skies, filled with wisps of clouds.  
Beneath my feet, the roots reach down through the hallowed ground,  
Beneath the cold and marble stones  
Beneath the green and grassy turf  
They burrow deep below my feet  
And curl around the fragile bones  
Yellowed and worn with time.

Around me lay five hundred stones,  
Straight and strong and proud,  
standing tall in perfect form.  
Silent white against the green.  
Here they lie.  
The murderers and the murdered  
The killers and the killed  
The well known and the unknown  
Their names have been lost  
'Known but to God.'

 

~ Elaine Malmsten


	2. Chapter 1

**T** he world was going to hell. Again. The cold burn of alcohol slid down his throat, numbing the fire sitting within his chest. The world was going to hell, and Sam was gone. 

Dean dropped the beer bottle onto the bunker table and looked at the empty chair across from him. Sam was gone — taken by that bastard. Anger flashed through his green eyes as he stared at the nothingness, and his fingers tightened around the cold glass of his drink. How had this happened? It was just a routine job in a small Nebraskan town. Get in, get out, local authorities would be none the wiser. They had just gotten back from the graveyard and he had been there. 

Dean looked down at the books that lay scattered across the table, their words swimming through his blurred vision. He still had no idea what he was looking for. They had walked into the room, and the man had just been … there. Just standing there in the middle of the room, clothed in black, just … waiting. Dean had barely had time to draw his weapon before the ground disappeared from beneath his feet, and that was it. 

Lights out. 

“Dammit.” Dean ran a hand down his face, the ring on his hand drawing a cool line down his flushed cheek. His eyes burned, and he finished off his drink to keep the tears at bay. He couldn’t cry; not now. Sam was out there somewhere. 

“Dean?” The low, worried rumble of Castiel’s voice had the hunter turning his head away, blinking desperately to try and rid the tears. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Cas.” Dean winced as his words hitched, and he cleared his throat as he set his beer down. “Uh, just trying to figure out who this son of a bitch is. What about you?” He finally turned to look the angel in the face, unsurprised to see the concern sparkling in those blue eyes. “Find anything?” 

“Nothing.” The angel shifted nervously on the stone floor, glancing off towards the far wall as if something had caught his eye, and Dean couldn’t help but follow his gaze for a second. There was nothing there, as per usual, and he turned back to the amassing books and notes that scattered the long, wooden table. “What about you?” 

“Yeah, maybe. I don't know.” Dean gestured vaguely towards a nearby book which depicted the medieval portrait of a monstrous creature, black horns protruding from his head and a forked tongue sneaking out from behind its mouth. “I mean, we don’t even know what we’re up against, Cas. Hell, all we know for sure is that it comes and goes with a big-ass ball of light, but it sure as hell ain’t like any angel we’ve ever seen.” 

Castiel approached, and Dean leaned slightly to his left as the angel’s arm brushed against his shoulder. Heat flushed through his cheeks, thankfully disguised by the alcohol. The angel barely seemed to notice as he pulled the book nearer. “Who is this?” he prompted, finger tracing over the page. 

“Uh, Dymanos.” Dean shrugged as he took another drink. “Suppose to be, uh, son of the devil or something like that.” He pushed the book out of Cas’ hands. “It’s a demon, Cas. That’s all it means. Some stupid ass mythology about demons.” He frowned as the angel tried to pull the book back towards him, and he gave the binding a hard shove, sending it and many others thudding to the ground. “I said it’s not important!” he snapped, fire flashing in his eyes. 

“Dean. Stop it.” Castiel’s jaw set into a tight line, pale, pink lips pursed, and Dean felt his eyes focus on them, on the way he caught a glimpse of white teeth when the angel spoke. “Dean. _Dean_.” Exasperation weighed down the angel’s voice, rumbling deep within his throat, and Dean tore his eyes away, blinking in surprise as he refocused on Castiel’s eyes. How drunk was he? A quick glance across the table answered his question. Very, apparently. He was very, very drunk. 

The hunter pulled himself to his feet, not surprised to find that the ground swayed beneath his feet. “I’m going to bed,” he announced, picking up his beer. “I just —” He swayed a little too far to the left, and he jerked back to the right in surprise. “I’m done.” He took a step forward, and a frown darkened his face when he found his way blocked by a warm, strong arm. He looked over to his right, eyes narrowed as he studied the angel’s face. He didn’t look happy. 

He felt a warm hand against his, the fingertips slightly rough and calloused, and with the grogginess of his mind he couldn’t quite place _why_ Castiel’s hand was against his. 

A sharp pull cleared it all up immediately. The mostly-empty bottle was yanked away and then all contact was gone as Castiel drew away to place the bottle back onto the table. Dean watched it go, unable to help the small, childish pout the tugged on his lips. “Really, Cas?” he scoffed. A witty retort sat on the tip of his tongue, and Dean hesitated, but he couldn’t seem to get it out which left him staring at the angel, mouth hanging half-open as he tried to find his voice. 

It never came, and eventually Castiel cleared his throat. “Dean. Perhaps you should go to bed.” He moved forward, black dress shoes silent on the cold, stone floor. 

“Yeah I should — what’re you doing?” Dean watched as a hand came to rest on his back, gently but insistently nudging him onwards. “Cas? I — I can find my way back to my own room,” he finally got out with a scornful note. It lost its potency, however, when he almost stumbled over the floor. Dammit. In hindsight, perhaps starting with all that whiskey wasn’t the best idea. Liquor before beer his ass.

The angel was there to steady him, his strong arms keeping him upright. “Somehow I doubt that,” Castiel murmured under his breath, but Dean didn’t get around to answering as the seraph led him away.


	3. Chapter 2

**T** he next morning was a bitch. Dean stumbled out of his room at about half past eleven, the pounding of his head and the bitterness in his stomach urging him onwards towards the kitchen. What he needed was coffee. Coffee, a bagel, and some more whiskey. His fingers traced the smooth stone walls as he made his way down the hall.

The kitchen wasn’t empty, and the Winchester paused in brief surprise. “Uh, hey, Cas.”

“Dean.” The angel turned and rose at the sight of the hunter. “You’re … looking better.” His words were accompanied by a nod of his head, and Dean moved towards the coffee pot with a small shrug. There was already a pot boiling, its black aroma creeping up through the air in the most delightful way. “I, uh, made coffee,” Castiel put in helpfully when he saw the way Dean stopped beside the counter, momentarily taking in the sight before reaching for his mug. “I figured after what had transpired last night …”

Dean froze, heat flooding his cheeks. Last night? What had happened last night? All he remembered was that utter sense of failure at not finding Sam, and then there had been Cas’ lips … shit. What had happened? “Uh, l-last night?” he stammered out, not turning to face the angel in fear of what would come out of that perfect mouth.

“Yes.” The deep rumble in his voice carried a tinge of concern. “You don’t remember? But I think you were onto something.” Blue eyes burned into Dean’s back, and the hunter blushed.  
“I think we are hunting Dymanos. I looked into it after you went to bed.”

Oh. Dymanos. “R-Really?”

“He’s a nephilim who was born and raised in hell. He has all the strength of an angel and all the malicious intent of a demon.” Deep-set lines darkened the angel’s face as he relayed the gravity of their situation. “I looked into the mythology, and I’m convinced he is what we released when we opened the back door of hell.”

“So you’re telling that that this guy’s behind that 7.0 earthquake? The wildfires in California?” Dean scoffed at the idea as he poured himself his coffee. “Really, Cas? The dude’s a Frank Sinatra.”

He turned to see Castiel nod, not quite understanding what he was getting at. “Yes. But he apparently has the temperament of his father.”

“Wait wait. What? Father?”

“Lucifer.”

“Awesome.” Dean dropped down into the chair Castiel had previously been occupying. The seat was still warm, almost as warm as Castiel’s skin; Dean couldn’t place why, but the angel’s touch always had a certain degree of unnatural heat. “You mean —”

“Yes.”

“Any idea how to —”

“No.”

“Awesome.” The Winchester set his drink down and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed close as he retreated into his thoughts, searching for anything that could possibly help. “Well, one thing’s for certain. We need to get Sam back.” He took a long drink of his coffee and stood up. “No matter what. You understand?”

“Of course.” Castiel stepped closer, mouth half open as if there was something he wanted to say, and Dean felt his own mouth go dry as he watched how Castiel’s tongue tucked itself against his bottom teeth before the angel’s lips came back together. He looked up and their eyes met, green against blue, and it took Dean several seconds before he could even think about tearing his gaze away.

“Good,” he finally got out. “I, uh, I guess I’ll go take another look over those books, huh? Might catch something now that I’m sober.” He reached down and picked up his coffee before he left the room, heat flushing his cheeks as he felt Castiel’s gaze on his back. God dammit, why was he acting like some teen with his first crush? He was a grown man. Castiel wouldn’t care. He was going to walk into that room and tell the angel how he felt. Someday.

Today was definitely not that day.

 

 **A** lead had taken them to Madison, Alabama. Sudden tornadoes and flash flooding, all of it over in an hour. Three dead. He and Cas had gone down to investigate, but the only thing they had gotten was the name of a psychic a state over from. After this travesty, local wiccan had been more than willing to spill with little persuasion necessary.

“We can reach Angela’s by mid morning if we stop now.” Castiel’s low voice had Dean looking up. The angel was approaching, a cup of coffee in his hands from God-knows-where. Not near here, that’s for damn sure. The hunter looked out over the moonlit lake, and his shoulders fell.

He accepted the drink from the angel without a word, swirling it agitatedly before taking a sip. “Yeah. Thanks, Cas.”

“Of course, Dean.” To the hunter’s surprise, Castiel joined Dean in leaning on the hood of the car, blue eyes turning out over the lake. “We _will_ find Sam,” the angel promised quietly. “Your brother is strong, Dean. He’ll be okay.”

Dean felt Castiel’s gaze fall on the side of his face, and he looked down at the ground below, the toe of his boot nudging a rock closer to another. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice catching in his throat, and he swallowed in hope of making his voice sound stronger. “Yeah,” he repeated. “I know. It’s just … what if he isn’t, Cas?” He tipped his head to quickly catch a look at the angel’s face before he returned to staring at the ground. “He was always the better hunter, Cas. I mean, he should be the one hunting this son of a bitch down, not me. I — I can’t do this without Sam, Cas. You know that. I can’t do this on my own.”

“Dean.” A hand, so wonderfully and unnaturally warm, came to rest on his, and the hunter stiffened in surprise, head turning to see find Castiel’s hand covering his. He could feel the angel’s eyes on his face, and Dean looked up to meet his eyes. Something flickered through the those azure irises, a fleeting emotion that was gone as the angel reeled it back in, but it was there long enough for Dean to recognize it. He had seen how the eyebrows had turned upwards, how his eyes had softened as they studied his face. “You are not alone.”

Dean barely heard the Castiel’s words. He could feel the angel’s heartbeat against his skin — his own raced right alongside it. “Yeah.” His mouth felt dry, and the silence seemed to drag on as he searched for words: not just any words — the perfect words. He needed Castiel to understand. “Cas, I …”

_I’m sorry for everything._

_I need you._

_I … I love you._

“Dean.” Castiel quietly cut into Dean’s thoughts, his hand tightening over his, and the Winchester watched as the angel’s lips curved upwards ever so faintly, just the hint of a smile across his soft and worn face, but it was enough to put all of Dean’s doubts to rest. “I know.”


	4. Chapter 3

**D** ean turned the Impala onto the empty highway, the headlights illuminating the darkened road ahead. Castiel sat to his right, hands covering the silver weapon in his lap. They had left Angela’s house several hours back; the physic had been more than helpful. She had known everything: Dymanos’ name, his location, his weakness.

 

_“He came to me a dream,” Angela insisted as Dean paced through the light and airy living room, a place too bright and clean for his liking. “H-He said two men would be coming here just like you two. He said you would be looking for him.”_

_“Yeah, I bet he did,” Dean muttered, and he only stopped his pacing when Castiel put a hand on his shoulder._

_“Dean.” The angel’s voice was deep and soft, and Dean reached up to cover Castiel’s hand with his._

_Angela rose to her feet, her light blue eyes studying the two men for two quiet seconds before she spoke. “T-That wasn’t all he told me,” she began slowly. “He told me he was in Hastings, Nebraska, w-with a man named Sam? And then he gave me this.” She moved over to the trunk against the far wall and produced a long, thin something wrapped in cloth. “He said you would know what to do with it, and when I woke up … there it was.”_

_Dean stepped forward to take it, but he knew what he held even before he unwrapped it. An angel blade._

 

“Archangel blade,” Castiel corrected, snapping Dean out of his memories. “It’s an archangel blade: Lucifer’s, I believe.” He looked over at Dean and must have sensed his displeasure at having his thoughts read as he looked away apologetically. “You … were thinking quite loudly.”

“It’s fine.” Dean reached over and put a forgiving hand on Castiel’s knee. “Don’t sweat it.” He returned his hand to the steering wheel and added, “So. Lucifer’s weapon, huh? Why would this guy just give us the weapon that could kill him?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel shook his head in concerned puzzlement. “Perhaps …” He turned his gaze out the window as he added, “Perhaps Dymanos wants us to come. Perhaps this is his way of ensuring that we go to him.”

Dean looked at Castiel, and he couldn’t help the tightness in his throat at the implication. “So this is a trap,” he restated.

“Yes.”

Dean hit the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “God dammit.” He felt Castiel’s gaze on his face, and he flushed in embarrassment when he realized what he had said. “Sorry.”

“You’re stressed. I understand.” The angel’s hands fidgeted nervously with the handle of the weapon. “What should we do? Should we try to find an alternative way? Although perhaps that’s what he is expecting.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Dean drew in a deep breath before he slowly let it out. “But no. We’re going in. Right through the front door.”

“Dean —”

“Cas, we need to find Sam, okay?” Dean’s voice rose angrily before he could catch himself, and he looked away guiltily. “We need to get Sam back alive,” he repeated.

“Of course, Dean.” To his surprise, Castiel’s voice was soft. “Saving your brother — that’s my priority. We will get Sam back. No matter what.” A hand rested on his arm, warm and comforting, and Dean met the angel’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “Thanks, Cas.”

 

 **D** ean leaned up against the hood of the Impala, staring out through the early morning mist towards the grey concrete of the factory up ahead. Castiel stood at his side, his fingers laced with Dean’s in a silent gesture of comfort and affection. “If you’re not ready —”

“No.” Dean shook his head firmly as he cut his angel off. “I’m ready, just … give me a minute.” He turned his head to look at Castiel. “This doesn’t feel right,” he added. “It feels like a trap.”

“I believe it is a trap,” Cas agreed solemnly. “The only wardings within are to suppress my wings.” He stared out at the factory, and Dean saw his pale lips twist into a frown. “Dymanos wants up to go in on foot.”

“Alright. Then that’s what we’ll do.” Dean reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out Lucifer’s blade. “We get in, find Sam, and kill that son of a bitch. Then we get out. Simple as that,” he finished, a little bit of force in his voice to convince himself as much as Castiel.

The angel didn't immediately agree. “Dean, if this is a trap, it’s not going to be that simple.” His warm hand drew away, and Dean turned with a small frown. “Chances are Dymanos won’t let us go so easily.”

The hunter shook his head. “No. You said it yourself. He wouldn’t expect us to come bursting through the front door. Not when he made it this easy.” He twirled the archangel’s blade in his hands before he stepped away from the Impala. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Castiel followed him up to the large front door of the factory. It was locked, but a brush of his fingers against the metal lock had the door swinging open. Dean stepped through first, green eyes flitting down the halls. He paused for a moment, blinking so his eyes could adjust, but a hand on his shoulder had him stepping aside so Castiel could enter. “This way.” The angel turned towards a descending stairway on the right. “They’re down a floor.”

“Hey.” Dean paused as they reached the lower level, his flashlight turned to the paint strokes on the walls. “I’ve seen that before.”

Castiel moved back to stand at Dean’s side, their shoulders brushing. “It’s a sigil,” the angel confirmed. “But whoever put this up did it wrong.” He reached out and touched the edge of an incomplete circle. “This would be why I’m not as affected as much as I expected to be.” Castiel turned to another sigil on the other wall. “These wardings weren’t drawing precisely.”

“Huh.” Dean couldn’t help the warm trickle of cocky satisfaction within him. “Then maybe we have the upper hand after all.”

“It would take an experienced hand to efficiently complete these,” Castiel agreed. “It seems Dymanos overestimated his ability.” He started moving back down the hall, and Dean lengthened his stride to catch up. The angel paused at a fork, and Dean watched as his eyes squinted and head tipped to one side. “Sam is straight ahead,” Castiel finally announced. “He’s unconscious, but he is alive.”

“Okay, so what’s the hold up?” Dean darted his flashlight up and down the hall, frowning in confusion as to why they had stopped.

“Dymanos is to the left,” Cas finished. “It feels like he’s waiting.” Indecision flashed in his eyes, evident as the tension of their dire situation settled in. “He may have laid a trap at Sam’s door.”

“Then we’ll go after him first.” Dean glanced down the hall toward where his brother lay. “We’ll kill him before he even knows we’re here.”

“No.” To Dean’s surprise, Castiel shook his head. “You should go after Dymanos — you’re the one with Lucifer’s blade. I’ll rescue Sam before anything else can happen to him.” A flash of light caught Dean’s eyes, and he looked down to see Castiel’s angel blade in his hands. “Go,” Castiel repeated, voice tinged with a bite of frustration when Dean didn’t move. “I’ll come find you when I know Sam is safe.”

Dean wasn’t sure who moved first, or how he had gotten his hands on Castiel, but the warm and solid push of lips against his had him forgetting that he even cared. His hand found its way into the angel’s hair, and he pulled him deeper into the kiss.

He was the first to pull away, needing air for his burning lungs. Castiel moved away more slowly, his lips parted slightly as he stepped back. “Be careful, Dean,” he finally said after a second of silence. “I’ll return with Sam.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked down to see their hands were still entwined, keeping Castiel near. “Yeah,” he repeated dropping his angel’s hand. “You too Cas. See you soon.”

Castiel disappeared down the dark hallway, and Dean turned down his own path.


	5. Chapter 4

**D** ean moved slowly, carefully checking each door and each room that lay beyond. He found nothing time and time again, and he wandered down the hall, eyes and ears poised and alert. His attention was caught by the flicker of light from beneath a door up ahead. The hunter hesitated outside the door for one second, then two, and then with a burst of courage and rage, he pushed his way inside.

A man stood in the center of the room, his hands folded patiently. Brown hair framed a thin and angular face, and keen blue eyes watched Dean’s arrival with interest. “You came.”

The hunter recognized him immediately; the black suit and the thin, pale lips giving him away. “Dymanos, right?” He twisted the weapon in his hands as he stepped forward, but halted with the nephilim raised his hand.

Despite Dean's hostility, the creature seemed as cordial as ever. “Please. Call me Damien. It’s far more … fitting for the age.” His hand dropped down to motion to the weapon in Dean’s hand. “I see you received my father’s sword from the psychic.”

“Yeah,” Dean quipped sharply. “Big mistake on your part.”

Damien let out a soft laugh. “Perhaps,” he conceded good-naturedly, “But it was the only way to get you here.” He moved forward, fingers dragging on the table as he circled around it. “I’m no fool, Mr. Winchester. My father told me exactly who you are. Before you killed him, of course.” He stopped in front of Dean and placed his hands into his pockets. “I know you’re going to kill me. And I’m going to let you.” He motioned to himself, and for the first time Dean saw the scars  
and fissures on his exposed skin. “Being the son of an angel and a demon is extremely unstable. I was kept in stasis while in hell, but now that I walk the earth, my time is limited. I give myself a day. Perhaps an hour. My death is inevitable, Dean, and that is why I will let you kill me — but not quite yet. This wasn’t just one elaborate plan purely for my demise.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean narrowed his eyes as he studied the calm confidence on the nephilim’s face. “So what was this? A test to see if we could get in and find Sam?” He scoffed condescendingly. “Cause guess what. Your warding didn’t work, Chuckles.”

The soft laugh sent an unbidden shiver up Dean’s spine. “I can assure you my sigils did exactly what they were suppose to,” Damien chuckled. “And yes, Dean, there is a test. However, you haven’t yet taken it. Ah ah.” He held up a hand when anger flashed in Dean’s eyes and his hand tightened around Lucifer’s blade. “If you kill me now,” he warned, “they both die.”

The shiver returned, hot and thick at the nephilim’s words. “Both,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes. Your brother and your angel.” Damien circled back around the table and picked up clear glass and a bottle of whiskey. “Drink?” he offered.

Dean only adjusted his stance firmly, too afraid to trust his voice, but the cold fire in his eyes gave the nephilim the answer he needed.

“Suit yourself.” Damien took a sip from his filled glass, pausing to roll the flavor around on his tongue before he finally swallowed. “You know,” he began, “I never really knew my father, having been locked away on the outskirts of hell for so —”

“Save the sob story,” Dean snapped, his anger and impatience momentarily getting the best of him. “Let Sam and Cas go.”

He watched in barely masked frustration as Damien clicked his tongue. “Dean Dean Dean,” he chided. “My father gave me one command before he died, so I thought I should at least explain why this is happening.”

“Let me guess. I killed your daddy, now you’re out looking for revenge.” Dean’s voice grew deep with anger. “Save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“No, no, I doubt you have.” Damien stalked up to him, something cold dancing in his ice blue eyes. “My job, Dean, is to make you understand. You killed my father because once upon a time, he made an impossible choice. And now, Dean Winchester, it’s your turn.”

Dean shifted backwards as confusion pushed at his mind, but he refused to look away.

“Lucifer was forced to choose between losing his father’s love or his family’s respect. Either he grovel before man, or he stand up for his brothers and their rights. An impossible choice between the two things he loved most caused him pain and misery for the rest of his life. Lucifer thought you should understand that.” Damien raised both of his hands, and two glowing orbs appeared in his hands, one blue, one white. “You, Dean, are going to choose between the two things you love most in this world.”

“You son of a bitch.” The words sounded stronger than Dean felt, rumbling deep within his chest and bouncing off of the barren walls. “If you think —”

“That you can bring them back again?” the nephilim finished. “You won’t. You’re going to choose one, Dean. One companion for the rest of your miserable life. The other comes with me, and when I die, his soul will be scattered so far across the universe God himself won’t be able to put him back together again.” His hands fell back to his side, and Damien looked down at his cracking skin. “Better choose fast,” he warned. “I won't survive much longer.”

“No.” Dean surged forward and pinned the nephilim against the wall, eyes burning with rage as Damien’s head slammed back into the brick with a sickening crack. “You listen to me, you sick son of a bitch. I swear to God I'm going to get them out alive.”

Damien laughed, a low, dark noise that had Dean's confidence splintering. “God has nothing to do with it,” he rasped. “Tick tock, Dean. Make your choice.”

Dean's fist connected with Damien's jaw once, twice, and finished with a third punch to the nose before he stepped back. “You wanna kill someone?” he yelled. “Huh? Kill me. Come on!” He socked the nephilim in the mouth as anger and panic swept through his limbs like a tsunami, his organs tossing and turning in the waves. “Come on!” he yelled. “Kill me instead!”

Damien fell to the ground with the force of Dean's attack, and he spat blood onto the ground but made no move to get up. “I'm not killing you,” he laughed. “There's no punishment in that, Dean. No lessons learned.” He pointed behind him, and Dean turned to see a window on the wall which had been empty just seconds before. “Take a look.”

Dean didn't want to, but his feet carried him over to the glass.“Maybe looking them in the eyes will help you decide,” Damien added from where he sat. “And then again, maybe not.”

Dean ignored the nephilim’s laughter as he tried to look away, but his head refused to move, and his eyes refused to blink as he stared into the darkened room. Sam was there, his bloodied and unconscious body tied to a wooden chair. His head sagged against his blood-stained shirt, and his hair was matted and covered in grime.

Castiel was to the left, half-suspended by chains. His arms were bound above his head, but even as Dean watched, he stirred, head rising towards Sam as his lips fell open in an unheard question. Sam didn't respond.

“They can't see or hear you.” Damien rose to his feet behind Dean, but the hunter didn't look away from the window, and for one second Castiel turned towards him, and their eyes met. Dean knew they did, and time stopped. The weight crushing his lungs and mind, the yoke bearing down on his shoulders that made his stomach heave and lungs weak -- for the briefest of moments it was all gone, and all that existed was Castiel, himself, and … clarity. Peace.

“Tick tock, Dean.” Damien’s voice was cold and triumphant, and the window disappeared forever from his view. “Five seconds before it's too late.”

Dean stared at the wall, eyes screwed shut as his fist tightened around the angel blade in his hand.

“Four.”

Why him? How could he live without either of them? Why should he of all people be the one to live?

“Three, Dean.”

One. One. The number repeated itself over and over again in his mind. Just say one, dammit. Don't make me choose. I need one.

“Two.”

The name came from Dean's lips, but it didn't feel like he was saying it. The voice sounded so foreign, so … sure of its answer. It couldn't have been Dean. It couldn't have been him that sent one of his loved ones to their death.

The room lit up in a bright light as a soul was released from the nephilim’s hold, but Damien was dead before he could utter a word, light exploding from his body with a silent scream as his father's sword pierced his heart.

One.

One was dead. The ground disappeared from beneath his feet, and Dean fell. His knees hit the concrete floor with a low and distant thud, but the hunter felt nothing but the numbness and the shock. One was dead. He had killed him.

Zero.


	6. Chapter 5

**A** shes flew up into the grey morning air, red and yellow stars against the cloudy sky. The wind carried them up, up, dancing and twirling before they fell, slowly drifting back down to their source. Logs crackled as flames danced over the wood. Dean had felled them himself; his rage and his grief had fueled every swing of that rusted axe. It was Dean who had laid the body on the pyre, wrapped securely in a thick white sheet, and it was Dean who had lit the match. Who had burned the very person he had killed.

He stood in front of the flames, their heat lapping hungrily at his skin. But Dean didn't move; he didn't care. The heat felt like hell, but deep down inside he welcomed the anguish and the pain.

Footsteps approached from behind him, but Dean didn't turn around. Eventually a hand came to rest on his on his shoulder, a silent and solid touch of comfort. “Dean. This isn't your fault.”

Dean didn't turn to answer his brother, but his head fell as he tried to keep back the tears. Goddammit, he wasn't going to cry, not in front Sam.

The hand squeezed sympathetically, and Sam let out a long slow breath. “I know Cas meant a lot to you, Dean,” he finally said. “Hell, he meant a lot to me, too, but I know he --”

“Shut up.”

The younger Winchester fell silent and Dean could feel his hurt, but right now he didn't care. Castiel was gone. “I'm sorry,” Sam pulled his hand away, and after a second he stepped away. “I'll be by the car. Take as long as you want.” He clapped Dean's shoulder one last time, and Dean finally looked up into Sam's face. His brother's eyes glittered wetly with undisguised  
grief, and he dipped his head when Dean stared.

He listened as his brother walked away before he turned back to the burning pyre. To Castiel. He had wrapped the angel, trench coat and all. Part of him had wanted to keep it -- dammit he had wanted to keep it so bad -- but somehow ... taking it felt … wrong. He ran a hand down his face to brush away the tears, and he felt the cold drag of metal on his flushed skin. He had taken one thing, though. There had been a ring on Castiel's finger, a silver wedding band from long before the angel had walked the earth. It had sat on his warm finger for over a decade, and now it rested on Dean's hand, pressed up tightly against Dean's own ring.

The wind whipped the flames and the heat through the air, but Dean didn't move. He would stay.

He stayed there until the pyre burned to little more than ashes. The logs were dull and white, and the acrid sting of smoke burned his throat as he reached out and touched one of the ashen and splintered branches.

 _Saving your brother -- that’s my priority._ He could hear the low, deep rumble of Castiel’s voice from only two days before. _We will get Sam back. No matter what._

No matter what. Dean tapped the branch as tears blurred the world. Two days ago since Castiel had made that promise, and Dean could almost feel his warm hand on his arm. Who would have known that promise would have so high a cost?

Wind whipped through his hair, carrying Castiel’s voice on its back. “Thank you.” His words rasped in his throat, and Dean swallowed to fix it but to no avail. “Thank you,” he repeated. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sam standing by the Impala and turned back to the pyre. “I … I love you,” he admitted quietly. The words felt new and foreign on his tongue,but he let out a shaky breath and a shake of his head. “I love you, Cas, okay?”

The only answer came on the cold breeze, and Dean didn’t dare to look back as walked away.

 

 **H** e returned to Castiel’s grave the next year, and the year after that. Always on June 12th. The day God’s angel had finally died.

A large oak grew from the ashes, the thick trunk supporting long, heavy branches and their crown of leaves. Dean carved Castiel’s name into the trunk on the third year, his knife scoring the thick bark. He cut his hand on the ‘s,’ a large, deep scar that would mar his skin for the rest of his life. Dean didn’t care.

The seasons passed, and Dean came year after year after year. Wind, rain, or shine, he came.

Then one year he didn’t.

Sam came the next day, a shovel in his hands. It was the job that finally did him in, just like Dean had always said, and the drinking and the sleepless nights had only sped up the inevitable. Dean had died doing his job. He dug his brother’s gave among the roots and buried him in the shade of the tall, stretching branches. The leaves cast dappled shadows on the ground, like the shadows of celestial wings as Sam carved Dean’s name beside Castiel’s. The white bled with each deep mark.

_Dean Winchester + Castiel._

Sam knelt down and pulled two rings from his pocket, the two rings from Dean’s left hand. He pressed them into the soft dirt, side by side, before he stood up and walked away. Dean had never mentioned his feelings towards Castiel.

But Sam knew.


End file.
